


What Comes Next

by potentiality_26



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Episode Related, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Multi, OT3, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-02
Updated: 2015-01-02
Packaged: 2018-03-04 12:36:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3068141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/potentiality_26/pseuds/potentiality_26
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Athos looked dazed, as he often did when confronted by strong emotions. Aramis knew from experience that the only way to keep Athos from retreating into his head- and from thence a bottle- when he was like that was to give him something to do or someone to worry about.</em>
</p><p>Between 'Knight Takes Queen' and 'Musketeers Don't Die Easily,' Aramis and Porthos struggle to make sense of Athos- and maybe change things for the better.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Comes Next

**Author's Note:**

> I'd done the natural amount of speculating, regarding the actual pre-1x10 conversation where the guys work out who knew what when, but it wasn't until I rewatched "Commodities" that I had a real light bulb moment regarding a possible sticking point. And thus this fic was born.

Athos and d’Artagnan were out late that night.

Though this wasn’t exactly usual- normally the four of them went out together- it wasn’t unheard of either. Athos seemed to feel a particular attachment to their newest recruit- who in turn seemed to feel a particular attachment to him. Aramis was ashamed of how much jealousy that knowledge was capable of inspiring in him- especially when he remembered that most of the time Athos that now spent with d’Artagnan he had once spent alone. Aramis had never been quite sure if Athos remained so isolated even once they’d become close friends because he preferred some time to himself, or because he thought he needed to give Aramis and Porthos some time alone together. Now that Athos spent much- but not all- of that time d’Artagnan’s company, Aramis began to theorize that it was in fact some of both.

He and Porthos spent the evening doing nothing more illicit than playing cards- not for money, of course, Aramis knew better than that- and waiting for their friends to return to the garrison. Aramis didn’t begin to suspect that there was something more afoot until they got back.

D’Artagnan looked as haggard as Aramis had ever seen him. There were pronounced tear-tracks on his face, and he seemed… wrung out emotionally. Athos looked dazed, as he often did when confronted by strong emotions. Aramis knew from experience that the only way to keep Athos from retreating into his head- and from thence a bottle- when he was like that was to give him something to do or someone to worry about. D’Artagnan seemed to be providing the latter simply by existing, and as the two of them made their way into the garrison Athos consistently laid a light hand on d’Artagnan’s shoulder or back or wrist- whatever part of him was handy. At every touch, d’Artagnan looked a little bit more like himself, but when he saw Aramis and Porthos he crumpled inward again.

Arm firmly around d’Artagnan’s shoulders, Athos said something in his ear. There was a crooked smile on his face, humor wrapped around the pain. Aramis remembered a time when he and Porthos were the only ones Athos would force himself to be merry for, and again felt horribly jealous. He fought it down.

“What’s going on?” Porthos asked when Athos and d’Artagnan reached them.

“There is something I need to tell you,” Athos replied.

“Something _we_ need to tell you,” d’Artagnan corrected shyly.

Athos shook his head and put his hand on d’Artagnan’s cheek. “ _You_ did nothing wrong,” he said firmly. D’Artagnan leaned into his hand. Athos lingered for a moment more, then turned to Aramis and Porthos. “We’re going to need wine.”

D’Artagnan, seemingly desperate to be useful, went to retrieve some. This done, they went to Aramis’ rooms- which was closest- and all took seats.

Athos began: “D’Artagnan and I spent this evening comparing notes about this woman in the cardinal’s employ.”

“Madame de la Chapelle?” Aramis asked. He _had_ been paying attention these last few weeks, and it was obvious to him that that woman effected had Athos in a way no other had, and there had been something Athos’ voice when he spoke of this woman who worked for the cardinal that made it clear they were one and the same.

“She went by that name, yes,” Athos confirmed, nodding.

“But when I knew her she called herself Milady de Winter,” d’Artagnan explained. He flushed and ducked his head. Athos took his hand and squeezed it. Aramis couldn’t imagine what might have happened, what d’Artagnan found so embarrassing, shameful, and threatening to their friendship that Athos was willing to be so actively affectionate in order to comfort him.

“What do you know of her?” Aramis asked. It was obvious d’Artagnan had hashed this much out with Athos before and was reluctant to repeat it.

“I met her when I first arrived in Paris. We… well.” D’Artagnan looked down again.

“She was the woman you spoke of?” Porthos asked.

D’Artagnan nodded. The memory clearly made him uncomfortable, but he was also obviously glad not to be forced to explain further. “She also framed me for murder, but…”

Athos grip on d’Artagnan’s hand tightened.

“At any rate, she appeared in my life a few more times. She was the one who gave me the prize money. I smelled a woman’s perfume in the moneylender’s shop, as you probably remember, but it wasn’t until tonight that I realized it was hers. Since Athos had said that he knew of her, I went to ask him about it. And we talked.”

“So you two both knew this woman in different capacities, and never realized that it was the same one until now?” Aramis asked.

D’Artagnan nodded again, miserably, and Porthos whistled. “When I think of it, it was really pure chance sometimes," d'Artagnan said.  "Me not being here or there, or coming in just a few seconds too late to see her face.”

“When did you come in a few seconds too late?” Aramis remembered Ninon’s trial, realized that if d’Artagnan had been there things might have been very different, but he didn’t know what the boy was talking about in this case.

“We’ll come to that,” Athos spoke up again.

“Yeah,” Porthos agreed. “It’s your turn, anyway. How do you know her?”

It didn’t appear easy for Athos to say, and he spoke at last Aramis understood why. He also understood why d’Artagnan was such a mess. “She’s my wife.”

“You have a wife,” Porthos said, tone as brittle as Aramis had ever heard it.

“I didn’t think I did. I believed her dead. Obviously, I was deceived.” Athos drained his cup of wine. “She had a criminal history of which I did not become aware until after we were wed. She killed my brother.”

“Hell,” Aramis whispered.

“It was my duty to order her execution, and I did. Evidently, she didn’t die.” Athos looked up, held Porthos’ eyes. “Forgive me, for endangering you that day. I can’t express… how the thought of returning to that house for a single second terrified me. For a time, I honestly didn’t think of it- that’s how unwilling I was to consider it as an option.”

“I forgive you,” Porthos said. His eyes were wide. Aramis understood that. This was a great deal to take in all at once.

For Aramis, it certainly made sense of how Athos had behaved all the time they were at le Fere- and yes, his nigh-deadly reluctance to go there in the first place. The place must have been full of ghosts for him.

“I wouldn’t have known she was alive at all until the trial, except that she also returned to le Fere.”

“When was this?” Porthos asked.

“After the three of you left.”

“What happened?” Aramis asked.

“I drank. She set my house on fire.” Athos mentioned this much so casually that Aramis hardly processed it at first.

“That was when I arrived,” d’Artagnan said, speaking up for the first time since Athos had begun to explain his part. “She was gone before I could see her properly, or we might have made sense of all this much sooner. But at least I found Athos.”

“My God,” Aramis whispered.

“That’s everything,” Athos said. “I swear it. I should have told you sooner. Perhaps I thought… I don’t know what I thought.” He turned back to d’Artagnan, putting his hand on their newest recruit’s shoulder once again. “We will leave you now, if you have no more questions.”

Aramis still hadn’t made up his mind how he felt, and merely nodded dumbly.

Athos and d’Artagnan departed, leaving him alone with Porthos. For the longest time, neither of them had any idea what to do except drink, so they did. Excessively.    

*   *   *

Athos negotiated with Treville to give Aramis and Porthos a day to recover from their hangovers and yet another to recover from the story he’d just told them. Two days turned into several when Treville countered by sending Athos and d’Artagnan on a mission together alone, leaving Aramis and Porthos with nothing to do but guard the king and stew.

And stew they did. Once he made up his mind what he felt, Porthos was very angry indeed. He never explained why to Aramis, but Aramis suspected that he was angry about all the things Athos had never told them- them, his closest friends. Aramis himself was unable to be angry about that for any length of time- Athos had never made very good decisions where emotions were involved and none of this was exactly surprising. Instead, he found himself annoyed that Athos had prioritized, decided what was most important and ranked convincing d’Artagnan that he wasn’t angry at him for having relations with his wife over making peace with Aramis and Porthos.

But then Aramis remembered that it was d’Artagnan who had been there for Athos the whole time, while he and Porthos hadn’t even realized that any of it was happening, that anything was wrong. It was d’Artagnan had gone back for Athos and saved his life.

Aramis was in a tavern with Porthos when this revelation hit.  

He grabbed Porthos by the wrist. “He’d be dead. If d’Artagnan hadn’t gone back to that house, she’d have killed him and we just- just wouldn’t have known. We’d have gone about our day, and he’d never have come back.”

For a moment, Porthos just stared at him.

“We wouldn’t have known,” Aramis repeated, because that was the important part. Although Athos and d’Artagnan had much downplayed Athos’ peril during the fire at le Fere, Porthos had probably processed the idea that, if not for d’Artagnan, Athos might have died that day. And it wasn’t exactly unusual: Athos was in grave peril often- it was part of what they did- and that wouldn’t even be the first time d’Artagnan in particular had saved his life.

But it was something Porthos and Aramis both, really, took for granted- that when Athos died they would be there, and most probably die with him. They took for granted too that that was how it should be. To think of Athos dying alone in a fire, to think of them continuing about their business with no idea what they’d lost… it was very possibly the worst idea Aramis had ever considered.

Porthos was silent as this sank in. Then he threw coins on the table and said, roughly, “We’re going.”

Aramis nodded, and stood. He followed Porthos into the street in something of a daze, and they returned to Aramis' rooms in the same fashion. 

The moment Aramis closed the door behind him, Porthos spoke. “I’ve been so angry at him for keeping this from us. All the times we asked about his past, all the things we told him about ours, and all he’s say is that she died? When she actually…” Porthos choked, covered his mouth and turned away. “And then even after he knew she was alive, even after she _tried to kill him_ , he still didn’t take it upon himself to mention any of this until now?” Porthos started pacing, fitfully. “But to think that he could’ve died…” Porthos huffed out a breath and seemed to run out of energy very abruptly. “That _is_ worse somehow. So much worse.”     

“I know,” Aramis said, and embraced him. Porthos bent to Aramis’ shoulder, letting him kiss his temple and the top of his head. When he turned and caught Aramis’ mouth, Aramis realized that they were both shaking, making the kiss itself more a grounding exercise than a thing of passion.

Whatever it was, it gave Aramis the strength to speak his own mind.

“What really bothers me is that he isn’t here. I know the assignment came from Treville, but- where is he, you know? What’s he doing out there with d’Artagnan and not us? He’s hardly said a word to us in all this. His every word of comfort has been for that boy.” Looking back, Aramis once again felt a horrible abundance of jealousy, thinking about Athos’ arm around d’Artagnan’s shoulders, his hand on d’Artagnan’s cheek, his comforting smile. “When did he decide that making things right with d’Artagnan was more important than making things right with us?” Aramis couldn’t bring himself to mention the secret fear that had come upon him the previous night- that Athos and d’Artagnan had become lovers, that that was why Athos was so very different with him suddenly. That that was what made d’Artagnan special, that he’d gotten what Aramis and Porthos never had. He did say, “I love d’Artagnan, I do, but I hate thinking there’s something Athos gives him that he doesn’t give us.”

Much of Porthos’ anger appeared to have melted away, because he made an amused sound and kissed Aramis’ brow fondly. “Have you forgotten how unfair that is? There are parts of us that we don’t give Athos, after all.”

“As if we would have denied him those,” Aramis bit out.

“True,” Porthos sighed, and made a sad sound. He’d wanted Athos for even longer than Aramis had, and Aramis sometimes thought that he’d wanted Athos for an age.

Aramis knew he couldn’t kiss that sadness away, but his did his best.

Porthos remained silent for some time after that. They both readied for bed, neither bothering with night shirts- it went unspoken but completely understood that neither of them wanted to be alone or with another that night. It was only when they were wrapped around each other that Porthos spoke again. “I don’t really want to think about him tonight,” he said.  

They talked about Athos, to an extent that Aramis sometimes thought they should have been ashamed of. Over the years, both of them had grown very adept at imagining Athos with them and then describing it to the other in great detail while they made love. Of course, this wouldn’t be the first time that one of them wanted an evening to be more about the two of them than the ghost of a third, but Aramis knew there was more in the request than that.

He also knew that Porthos never forgot about Athos entirely, but he would do his best in that, too.        

Aramis blew out the candle.

He found Porthos’ mouth in the dark and for a time they merely kissed. It was such a familiar action that Aramis could discern Porthos’ mood from how he kissed, and Porthos’ mood at the moment wasn’t good. He was sad, angry- there was a hint of desperation in the way his lips moved against Aramis’ own, and a faint tremor in the way his fingers ran through Aramis’ hair. In return, Aramis just kissed him harder, deeper, and tried his best to drive the reasons why they were neither of them entirely well at the moment out of his mind.

If he had nothing else, Aramis had experience- with kissing in general and with kissing Porthos in particular. He knew everything Porthos liked- in particular, the give and take of control he preferred. Aramis had started this and Porthos let him have free reign- show off how well he knew every corner of his mouth. But eventually Aramis retreated, waited for Porthos to chase his tongue, pull him close and turn them over, lying on top of Aramis and ravaging his mouth.

After a while, even Aramis started to forget everything else.

When he and Porthos first became lovers, neither of them had had anything but each other. All that was familiar and safe between them now had been messy, shy, uncertain- and everything that had passed between them in the intervening years was hard won.

They had each other before they met Athos, and whatever happened- or failed to happen- with him, they had each other still.

That was what Porthos needed to be reminded of, and Aramis found he needed it too.

Aramis took back control of the kiss, flipping them over again. He nipped at Porthos’ lips a final time before he released them and kissed down his jaw, his neck, his collarbone.

When he reached Porthos’ chest, Aramis slowed down. He liked to do this in the light, so he could see where he was going, see how he affected his lover. But it was dark, and the moonlight that streamed into the room almost was negligible, so Aramis worked from memory. This scar here, that tender area there. He took his time, knowing from the soft noises of approval Porthos made that he agreed to Aramis’ plan for the evening.

He suckled at Porthos’ nipples, first one, then the other, and then he moved down his stomach, nuzzling his belly and nipping at his hipbones. Then he dipped further down, tracing the length of Porthos’ cock with his fingers and then following the same line with his mouth. Gripping him by the base, Aramis drew the tip of Porthos’ cock into his mouth and then drew him deeper still.  

In this, too, experience was his ally. Porthos was substantial and Aramis’ jaw quickly began to ache a bit from the stretch to accommodate him. Aramis drew back and used his tongue, tracing underside and then working the slit.

Porthos groaned. “Close,” he mumbled.

Aramis didn’t bother to nod in the darkness, he just pulled Porthos into his mouth again and sucked.

Swearing under his breath, Porthos asked, “You too?”

Aramis hummed around him, a ‘yes’ he knew Porthos would recognize. There was very little he loved to do more than this, and sometimes it was enough to bring him off on its own. 

Porthos’ fingers ran through Aramis’ hair and then tightened, a firm grip but not quite painful. “All right?” he asked, voice rough.

Aramis hummed again, and Porthos’ hips stuttered once before he started to move.

This too was familiar. Porthos fucked his mouth, letting him forget about technique and think about his own pleasure. He reached down, wrapping his fist around his own cock. The rhythm Porthos set sliding across his tongue was firm, even, perfect- and easy to match. When Porthos turned a little rougher, moving a little closer to the edge, Aramis groaned; he loved it when Porthos began to lose control.

His hand on his cock sped up and they both came at the same time, Aramis half choking as he struggled to swallow in the midst of his own orgasm, but he loved that too- the sloppiness and the lightheaded sense of floating that came with it.

They were both still gasping for breath when Porthos dragged Aramis up to his level and kissed him thoroughly. “All right?” Porthos asked again, as he always did.  

“Fine,” Aramis whispered, gulping in air to kiss him again.

“Love you,” Porthos murmured, releasing Aramis briefly to reach for a handkerchief. Aramis took it, cleaning up as best he could and then wrapped himself around Porthos again.

“Love _you_ ,” Aramis returned, resting his head on Porthos’ chest. It _was_ fine, he told himself.

 _They_ were fine.  

*   *   *

“Are you back, then?” Aramis asked when he cornered Athos in an alley outside the garrison the following day. He meant more than, ‘Have you and d’Artagnan returned from your assignment?’ and it was clear from the measured look Athos gave him that he knew as much.

“Yes,” he replied at last. There was just the faintest note of uncertainty in his voice, as if Aramis could tell him differently.

Aramis had not thought, before, that Athos might be avoiding him- might be avoiding _them_ \- because that was what he thought they would want. That he considered the revelations of the other night a natural and inevitable breaking point in their friendship, and had concluded that the kindest thing he could do was to gracefully allow it to happen. Aramis felt an anger he thought he’d let go of the night before surge in him. “Did you honestly think we wouldn’t forgive you?”

He saw in Athos’ eyes that, yes, he had thought that. Athos did not say as much, however. He replied, “Perhaps grudging forgiveness is not what I was looking for.”

“Then what were you looking for?”

Athos merely glared at Aramis for a time, then he sighed and leaned against the wall as if he was no longer able to hold himself up without assistance. “I don’t know. I don’t know if I thought that by never saying anything about- about my wife all these years I could make it… not so. I don’t know if I thought pretending it hadn’t happened would make it easier to let go. If I thought either of those things I was wrong, obviously. And now that I’ve told you… I don’t know what I want. Perhaps I hate the idea that you forgive me when I cannot forgive myself.”

“Well, we do,” Aramis snapped. “And we want you back.”

Athos conjured a small smile. “I am. Back.”

A bitter thought struck Aramis. “What about d’Artagnan?”

“Him too.”  

“No- I mean, it’s obvious that _he_ doesn’t blame you or question your decisions.” Aramis chose not to mention that the boy had also slept with Athos’ wife, a fact which really ought to have caused a bit more friction between them. “Why do you… favor his presence?”

Athos blinked, as if he hadn’t thought that he _did_ favor d’Artagnan, even though he had chosen to tell d’Artagnan all of this first, and shrugged. “I don’t know. He made it easy to tell him… everything. I had never found confession freeing or pleasant until I met him.” Athos shrugged again, opening his hands.

Aramis glanced around, checking that no one was passing in either direction, and indeed no one was. The area was unusually empty. He still leaned close. “Are you and d’Artagnan lovers?”

Again Athos merely blinked for a moment, as if he had no notion of why Aramis should ask such a thing at all, let alone on the tail of his previous question. “No,” he said carefully. “I think that he would come to my bed if I asked him, but his heart belongs to Madame Bonacieux. I think it best that neither of us attempt to navigate that terrain. Perhaps… one day, if he had let her go. But then, if he could let her go he might not be d’Artagnan any longer.” Athos cocked his head to one side, pushed off the wall, and eyed Aramis piercingly. “Why?”

“What do you mean why?”

“I mean why does it interest you so? _You_ have no claim on _me_.”

It was Athos’ tone that drove Aramis crazy. Athos could be so regal and combative when he took it into his head to be, and it was obvious that that was what he was going for with that statement. But underneath the words was such uncertainty, like he really didn’t know why Aramis should care if he did take up with d'Artagnan, like he was genuinely baffled.

Aramis surged forward, grasped Athos’ jacket by the lapels and dragged him forward, kissing him with neither gentleness nor finesse. He supposed he should have known that when he finally did kiss Athos it would be like that, an act as much of frustration as love.

And there was a moment when it was like Athos letting him have the last word in an argument- sweet, but really rather suspicious. A moment when his mouth and body were so utterly yielding. Athos actually made a soft noise of surprise, but he did nothing else. Only the smallest push pressed him against the wall. Athos didn’t move, didn’t kiss him back; his hands remained motionless at his sides- but he did let Aramis in. In answer, Aramis lightened the kiss, enjoying the surprising softness of Athos’ mouth, the heat of his body and the taste of his lips.

That was when Athos moved- shoving him back and staring at him with eyes that might have been steel. “No,” he said, roughly, lifting a hand and shaking it at Aramis. “No.” He turned on his heel and walked away.

“Shit,” Aramis whispered.

*   *   *

Aramis was glad to find Porthos at home. He didn’t know what he would do if he had to wander across Paris in search of his lover. Of course, by the time Aramis had reached Porthos’ lodgings, he was in something of a daze. Only Porthos’ hands on his shoulders, Porthos’ mouth lightly brushing over his, brought him out of it.

“What is it, love? What happened?”

For a moment more, Aramis couldn’t speak. Porthos, beginning to look truly concerned, sat Aramis down at his table and knelt before him, taking his hands.

“What happened?” he repeated.

“Athos and I quarreled,” Aramis managed, at last.

“No surprise there,” Porthos laughed, relief lightening his voice. “But you left him well?”

“I don’t think so,” Aramis whispered. He gripped Porthos’ hands so hard it must have hurt. “I… I kissed him.”

“You did?” Porthos’ eyes snapped immediately to Aramis’ lips, and Aramis saw a faint regret in his expression, as if he would have kissed Aramis differently just now if he had known that he might find traces of Athos on his mouth.

Aramis nodded.

“It didn’t… go well?”

“No,” Aramis replied. “It did not.”

Porthos rocked back on his heels, looking thoughtful. “Do you reckon he went home?”

Aramis shrugged. “I suppose. Why?”

“Lately I don’t know what’s in his head. Since… what he told us… I’m not sure I ever did. But we do still love him, right?”

“Of course we do,” Aramis said, wondering if Porthos could doubt it.

From the way he nodded, Porthos hadn’t doubted it at all, he had just wanted to hear Aramis say the words. “Well then, we’ve got to resolve this somehow. And you and me are going to tell him whatever it takes to calm him down.”

Aramis nodded helplessly and took Porthos’ offered hand.

They probably made quite the ridiculous picture, half leading, half carrying each other to Athos’ rooms- but if anyone noticed them neither of them processed it. When they arrived, Porthos pounded on the door, calling, “Athos? You there?”

For a while, Aramis worried that he wouldn’t be, that he had gone to one of any number of possible taverns, where it would be difficult to find him and impossible say what they needed to once they did. But then the door opened a crack and Athos peered out at them. From the looks of him, Athos hadn’t had time to get drunk, but he’d certainly made some headway in that direction. “What?” he demanded.

“We’re sorry,” Porthos said. No working up to it- but then, Athos didn’t seem like he intended to give them a chance to be delicate with him.      

Athos’ eyes darted between them, faintly suspicious. “For what?”

“That kiss.” Aramis ducked his head, ashamed that Porthos had to say this for him. The fact was, he was only sorry at all because Athos was so clearly upset about it- and now because Porthos had to deal with the fallout.

Athos’ eyes took in the larger area- the hall empty of any passerby, happily- and stepped grudgingly aside to let them in. Once they were inside, Athos closed the door with his back, leaning against it, and focused so wholly on Porthos that it was as if Aramis wasn’t even there at all. “ _You’re_ apologizing- to _me_ \- because he kissed me?”    

“It clearly made you uncomfortable.”

“ _I’m_ not his lover.”

“No, you’re not.” It caused Aramis actual pain how sad Porthos sounded. After all, Porthos was the one who had hoped Athos would join them in the bedroom as he had everywhere else from the very start. He was the one who was most saddened by the fact that Athos never had. Aramis couldn’t make up his mind if this was just Athos, if this just how it would always have been, or if he’d made a mistake with how he handled him, if he could have done it right and won Athos for the both of them. Either way, if that one kiss was all they’d ever have, he would describe it to Porthos for the rest of their lives if he had to.

Athos simply stared blankly at Porthos for a while. “I don’t understand you,” he said, at last. “I truly don’t.”

“What would help you?” Porthos asked, painfully earnest. “What do you need?”

“What do I-” Athos cut himself off fiercely. “I need us all to pretend that it didn’t happen.”

“All right,” Porthos whispered.

The misery in his voice was simply too much for Aramis to take. He’d been entirely ready to sit silently and let Porthos do what he could to deescalate the situation Aramis had caused, but this was too damn much. “Do you really think that would be right, Athos? You know us better than anyone, and right now you’re completely stymied, aren’t you?” Aramis knew his own confusion was in his voice for them all to hear.

Athos had been glaring at him, but he seemed to be calmed by this truth. “Yes,” he admitted softly.

“Why?” Porthos picked up. He hadn’t looked very happy with Aramis either for a moment, but now he seemed relieved that Aramis had found a way to keep the conversation going. “What do you expect?” Aramis could see Porthos running through everything he knew about Athos in his mind and finally settling on something. “Do you expect me to be jealous?”

That surprised Aramis, and he reflected on what he knew about Athos himself. He remembered when they had first told Athos that they were lovers. The three of them had become very close very quickly, and in hindsight Aramis knew that when Porthos had put it to him that they should tell Athos what was between them, Porthos had hoped even then that Athos would want to… join in. For Aramis, at the time, it had been big enough just to tell him. Athos had been as understanding about it as Aramis could have hoped, but the first time Aramis bedded a woman after Athos found out, he’d wondered if he hadn’t been wrong about Athos. He had seemed angry at Aramis and baffled by Porthos, and it took Aramis a while to realize what Athos had expected: Porthos to be jealous, angry. He had thought Porthos should feel betrayed. Over the years Aramis had assumed Athos had learned that it wasn't like that, that their relationship didn’t work that way- but it was clear that Athos felt that way now. He was confused because he thought Porthos should feel that Aramis had betrayed him, and that Athos was complicit in that betrayal.

“I don’t _want_ you to be jealous,” Athos replied, but something in his tone struck Aramis as false. He _did_ want Porthos to feel that way, and was furthermore ashamed of that fact.  It didn’t make any earthly sense to Aramis. His reaction stemmed from his desire not to hurt his friends, surely?

“Are you sure?” Aramis asked.

Porthos sent a hard look Aramis’ way.

Athos continued to focus on Porthos. “Aramis… strays, and you accept it because that’s how he is and you love him. And he always comes back, because those affairs don’t matter.”

For the first time, Aramis saw himself through Athos’ eyes. He didn’t enjoy it.

Athos continued: "And he can put the same expectations on you, I assume."

“I wouldn’t put it like that,” Porthos said. “But if that’s how you understand it, all right.”

“I either matter or I don’t.”

Aramis didn’t understand what Athos had just said at all, but it hit him like a punch in the guts anyway. It hit still harder when Athos, haltingly, explained.

“I truly don’t know what I want.” His eyes flickered briefly to Aramis, but he returned them to Porthos soon enough, gaze oddly beseeching. “I have no wish to be a threat to you. I would never try to… to take him away. But if I’m no threat… if it doesn’t matter that he…”

“I am jealous,” Porthos said, suddenly.

Athos looked wrecked.

“Not of you. Of him. He got to kiss you.” Porthos seemed to have forgotten Aramis was there too. “You _matter_. You matter so fucking much, but not the way you think. I don’t care about all his women because I know which parts of him will always be mine. But you’re different. If you think I’m not angry that he kissed you because it’s the same as him kissing some woman he’ll never see again, you’re wrong. I’m not angry because you’re _ours_. Once, it was just the two of us. We fought shoulder to shoulder and we were in love. And then you came along it was three of us. And we fell in love with you. I- we- always hoped you’d realize that it was supposed to be three, in _everything_ , but you just never did. So we figured that you didn’t want us like that. And then you almost died and we didn’t even know it. We could have lost you without ever having had you. Is it really that much of a surprise that it made Aramis a little crazy? If you don’t want us like that, it’s all right. But don’t ever think that you don’t mean anything to us. You mean everything.”      

Athos collapsed against the door as if he simply couldn’t hold himself up any longer. He didn’t speak; Aramis couldn’t exactly blame him if he didn’t know what to say to that. Aramis wasn’t sure _he_ could’ve spoken just then.  

Porthos took a slightly unsteady step toward Athos and raised his hands, trailing his fingertips lightly over the sides of Athos’ face. “Can _I_ kiss you?” he asked quietly.

For another moment Athos was completely still. Then, he nodded.

Carefully, as if he were trying to soothe a startled animal, Porthos cradled Athos’ face in both hands and leaned in, just barely brushing their mouths together and then lingering gently. Athos was still beneath him for a moment, but then he made a noise against Porthos’ mouth- not quite a groan- and lifted his own hands. His fingers slid through Porthos’ hair and he drew him closer, sealing their lips together properly and deepening the kiss.

Porthos, though, he did groan- low in his throat. One hand slipped from Athos’ face and flung outward as he braced himself against the door. His other hand slid down Athos’ neck to make a fist of his shirt and haul him closer still. Aramis could see a flash of tongue between their lips, and a torrent of emotion- too complicated to call any one feeling- made him weak in the knees. Aramis backed up without meaning to and would probably have hit either a wall or the floor had Athos’ bed not caught him instead.    

As Aramis sat, watching them kiss, he realized how long it had been since he had last imagined them having Athos with them and actually believed it was a possibility. He’d hardly known Athos back then; he’d thought himself fairly dying of want for Athos- but back then he hadn’t even known the meaning of the phrase, dying of want. He felt now as if he’d been starving for years and was only just now being allowed to eat: relieved and joyful beyond measure, but also completely overwhelmed. He felt as if he was about to fly apart right there, and he wasn’t even the one who had Athos in his arms, wasn’t even the one who was kissing him.

When Porthos pulled away at last, Athos’ eyes went unerringly to Aramis, who swallowed. It occurred to him how he must have looked- lying back on Athos’ bed, painfully hard- how presumptuous it must have appeared.

Athos, however, seemed transformed. He was leaning against the door again- no, _lounging_ against the door, and he smiled, slow, but as if he’d forgotten every last one of his doubts.

He crossed to Aramis and leaned over him, kissing him as thoroughly as he had ever been kissed. Aramis could taste traces of Porthos on Athos’ tongue, and he sucked hungrily, desperately searching out the unfamiliar nuances that were distinctly Athos. Aramis made fists of Athos’ shirt in an effort to keep him close, and whined softly when he lost the hot pressure of Athos’ lips as Athos withdrew so he could address Porthos over his shoulder. “Are you coming?” he asked.

That the phrasing effected Porthos was immediately obvious. He swallowed and joined them, resting on knee on the bed and running his hand over Athos’ back.

Athos arched into his touch like a cat.

Aramis wanted him undressed, wanted him undressed _now_. He didn’t know if he dared take the liberty, but he also thought that Athos might not appreciate being asked if he was sure.

Porthos, it seemed, had no such compunctions. He stroked the back of Athos’ neck. “Are you sure you want this, love?”

Athos shuddered the word- _love_ \- and sighed. “I _want_ you to stay with me tonight.”    

“And we will,” Porthos said. “But that can be all we do.”

Athos laid his hand over Porthos’. “I know.” He turned and kissed Porthos’ palm. “But I want more than that. Don’t you?”

“I do,” Porthos practicality choked out, eyes fixed on Athos’ mouth.

Athos turned his gaze to Aramis.

“I do,” Aramis breathed.

“Good,” Athos said, simply.

Everything about him was easier after that. Gone was the uncertainty and the fear- but gone too was the conspicuous _over_ confidence, the bright sheen over something that had been too well buried for Aramis to quite identify. He was simply Athos again- but Athos in their arms, as he always should have been.

Athos’ hands went to his own shirt buttons, and he made quick work of them, tossing his shirt aside. He undressed efficiently and with no hint of teasing. _How long has it been since anyone watched you?_ Aramis wondered. Probably a long time. Aramis doubted Athos had ever had it in him to make a show of it, though. Once he has naked Athos seemed neither proud nor embarrassed- and a hint of a flush only crept down his neck when he noticed both their eyes on him.

“What?” he asked.

Porthos’ jaw worked and he seemed unable to speak. He shared a glance with Aramis, one that asked for immediate assistance.

Aramis panicked internally, no surer of what to say than Porthos probably was. “You’re-” he began, helplessly. He sat up, reaching for Athos. “You’re so gorgeous.”

Athos actually snorted at that, but he did grasp Aramis’ reaching hand and tug Aramis to him. He wasn’t going to get into an argument with Athos over whether he was beautiful, but when he kissed Athos Aramis did put as much _you are you are you are_ as he was able into it. Athos took control of the kiss, either annoyed by Aramis’ tenderness or overwhelmed by it- or possibly both- and pressed Aramis back into the bedclothes.

Aramis’ hands slid over bare skin. His knee slipped easily between Athos’ legs and he felt Athos’ hard cock settle against his thigh. Aramis groaned against Athos’ lips. He’d never felt quite so… blessed to be able to touch Athos, to hold him, to arouse him as he evidently had- and yet he almost wished he was Porthos right now, able to watch this. He had no doubt they made quite a picture- Athos naked and him more or less fully clothed. He had certainly never imagined such a thing might happen.

Thinking of Porthos, Aramis turned his head and kissed Athos’ temple, looking for him over Athos’ shoulder.  

Porthos had stripped his shirt off, but evidently gotten too caught up in the sight before him to proceed any further. His arms were crossed over his chest as if he’d done so to trap his hands and keep them from wandering. His eyes were as hungry as Aramis had ever seen them.

Athos backed off a little, shifting his weight from Aramis. Aramis thought to follow Porthos' example and his fingers went to his shirt buttons. It was only when Athos took hold of his hands and met his eyes with a gentling expression that Aramis realized he was shaking. “Sorry,” Aramis whispered. It hit him like a ton of bricks, suddenly, that they were really doing this. That not only did he and Porthos finally have Athos, but that things between them were going to change forever. Aramis did not regret what they had done thus far- nor did he fear what was coming- so he couldn’t quite explain the strength of his reaction, even to himself.  

Athos shook his head and raised Aramis’ hands, kissing his fingertips. “Let me,” he murmured, and released Aramis’ hands. He found Aramis’ shirt buttons and undid them slowly, reverently. He did know how to tease in this, it seemed. He pushed Aramis’ shirt over his shoulders and tossed it aside, moving on to unbutton his trousers and unlace his smallclothes and then pull them down his legs.  

Athos huffed out a breath as this bundle got caught around Aramis’ ankles, and when he looked down and with an effort caught Athos’ eye he realized that he was laughing. Aramis laughed too, a noise that came out uncomfortably like a giggle. He flushed and almost apologized again, but Athos crawled up and kissed his embarrassed smile. Aramis kissed the crooked line of Athos’ mouth tenderly, and this time Athos let him be gentle. Aramis kicked his smallclothes and trousers the rest of the way off with a grunt and didn’t care where they landed.

Athos turned his head and laughed again, warm breath fanning out across Aramis neck. Aramis half chuckled, half whimpered as Athos buried his grin in the ridge of Aramis’ collarbone. He wondered if he would ever understand Athos’ peculiar mix of arrogance and shyness.

He wondered if it would ever stop both charming and scaring the life out of him.

Aramis pressed his face into Athos’ hair, sighing.

It was obvious that Porthos had been trying to keep quiet, wanting to give the two of them this moment together and not distract them. Aramis couldn’t be sure why it was this, out of everything, that finally made Porthos groan aloud, but he did. Aramis felt the heat of Athos’ flush at having forgotten him for so long against his skin.  

Porthos was standing precisely as he had been the last time Aramis looked at him. By the looks of him, he hadn’t moved an inch. He was looking at them exactly as Aramis would have expected him to: like this was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

Athos’ eyes were angled somewhat lower than Porthos’ face- not that Aramis blamed him. He knew from experience that Porthos’ trousers hid little when he was aroused.

“You’re-” Athos licked his lips. “You’re so hard.”

Porthos was still standing by the edge of the bed. He bent over slightly and Athos sat up on his knees to meet him, kiss him. Aramis lay back on his elbows to watch. One of Porthos’ hands cradled the back of Athos’ head; the other smoothed across his shoulders and then down. Aramis wanted to fix that image in his brain: Porthos’ fingers carding through Athos’ hair and tracing the path of his spine.

Athos broke away to move lower, kissing Porthos’ neck, and then his chest. From this angle, Aramis couldn’t see precisely where Athos’ mouth went- he could only see Porthos’ hands in his hair and on his shoulders periodically tightening and relaxing. Aramis didn’t need to see, though, because he knew Athos’ path like the back of his own hand; he had traveled it only the night before. He knew which scars Athos would pause to kiss, and which places Athos would discover were most sensitive, and which sighs Porthos might let out that would make Athos linger in hopes of drawing them again. He and Athos weren’t that different at the end of the day.

Aramis didn’t have to see- but he did want to. He was just rooted to his spot on the bed. He finally made himself move just in time to see Athos’ duck lower still. Aramis bit his lip, hard, to keep himself from groaning when he saw Athos mouth at Porthos’ cock through his trousers.

Porthos, though, did groan. He pulled Athos back. “Wouldn’t do that if I were you,” he said. “Not if you want to get any use out of it.”

Athos looked puzzled for a split second, and then his eyes went black. He pulled himself up and practically tore at Porthos’ trousers to get them off. Porthos moved to help, and between the two of them they managed to get him out of his smallclothes. Athos pulled him onto the bed at last.

Porthos lay over him, kissing his face and stroking his hair like he was the most precious thing he’d ever had in his arms. Aramis might have been a little jealous, if he didn’t so thoroughly share the sentiment. “What do you want?” Porthos breathed against Athos’ temple. Aramis was pleased that he and Porthos were on the same page in this as well. One day they might tell Athos the thoughts they’d had, the things they’d imagined together without him. One day they might ask what interest Athos had in recreating them. But today would be about Athos.

Athos quirked a brow, that look of bored nobility he had carefully crafted to enrage people in full effect, even with his eyes dark with want. “I want you to fuck me,” he replied, the obscenity ringing sharply in his cultured voice and tracing a line of heat straight from Aramis’ ear to his cock. “But if you’d rather treat me like a blushing maiden…”

Porthos growled and ground against him. Athos gripped Porthos’ shoulders and hissed.

Aramis supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised. He remembered the alacrity with which he’d moved after Porthos said, ‘Not if you want to get any use out of it.’ The way when Athos pulled Porthos to him he’d settled between Athos’ legs like he belonged there. He was a little surprised, though- surprised and aroused. He knew, though, that the only reason he was able keep his head at all was that he wasn’t the one holding Athos at the moment. He crawled forward and pressed his forehead against Porthos bicep; Porthos drew his own head back enough to give Aramis some room.

He touched Athos’ cheek and looked down at him.  “Have you done this before?”

“Yes,” Athos replied, drawing it out as if he was speaking to an imbecile.  Aramis huffed at the attitude, while Porthos swore under his breath in the background, and Athos relented: “It’s been some time, I’ll admit, but _yes_.”

Aramis blinked, wondering how Athos had kept that from them. Wondering _why_.  “And you're sure you should...” Aramis swallowed, images in his mind that weren't exactly helping him try to talk Athos out of this. “You’ll be feeling it in the morning,” he pointed out.

“That’s the plan,” Athos breathed.

“I really mean-”

“I know,” Athos cut him off. “Treville’s given us tomorrow off to sort things out. Obviously he knows that things between us… have not been what they might be. I’m not going to waste on opportunity like that.”

“Don’t mention Treville in a moment like this,” Aramis whined. It was rather a dousing of cold water, in his opinion.

Athos smirked. “Well then. Don’t ask questions you should already know the answer to.”  Porthos had his face pressed into Athos’ shoulder, and Athos took his head in both hands and pulled him up to kiss him wetly. He seemed to be waiting for some kind of surrender, because he didn’t let Porthos go until he sagged against him. Then he broke the kiss and reached for Aramis.

Porthos got up in hands and knees, giving them room to kiss. Aramis barely had enough time to enjoy it before Athos was moving away again, this time reaching into the drawer by his bed for something: a bottle of oil.

"I believe you need that," he said, tossing it toward Porthos.

So he really had done this before. Athos lay back down and turned onto his side, curling into himself a little. Then he craned his head to look back at Porthos, and Aramis couldn’t see Athos’ face, but he could imagine the command in it. Porthos made a sound low in his throat and obeyed. He braced himself, resting one hand on the bed beside Athos, and- taking the bottle- went to work with the other.  

Dousing of cold water or not, Aramis felt as if he might fly apart at any second. He had an unparalleled view of the slow care with which Porthos pressed his fingers into Athos, working him open; the way that Athos’ hair fell against his forehead and his head titled back; the gorgeous contrast of Athos’ pale fingers wrapped around Porthos’ dark forearm. Porthos took his time, but the moments seemed to pass with unusual quickness, a blur of the sound of Athos gasping and panting, and the flashes of heat in his eyes as they fluttered open and closed.

When Porthos finally said, “All right,” and drew his hands away, Athos lay on his back again, legs parted.

Porthos settled between them and slowly, carefully pressed inside.

Athos was biting his lip, hard.

“Am I hurting you?” Porthos asked.    

Athos made a noise. “A bit.” He gripped Porthos’ biceps hard enough that there would likely be bruises there in the morning. “I don’t mind. By all means, don’t do any damage, but a little bit of pain is not going to kill me. I want this last, you know.”    

Porthos looked faintly uncertain. Aramis understood that; as much as they loved and respected him, Athos was not a man they typically trusted to know his own limits.

Mouth twisting into a small smile, Athos reached out. Aramis took his hand.

“Come on,” Athos whispered, addressing Porthos but keeping his eyes on Aramis.

Aramis nodded, not able to speak, and Porthos slid home.

If Aramis had thought it was intense before, this was ten times more so. His eyes were locked with Athos’ and his world seemed to narrow to what went on inside them- and yet, looking nowhere but into Athos’ eyes, he knew the exact moment that Porthos was completely buried in Athos, and he knew exactly how it made him feel.

His mouth went dry. He supposed that a part of him expected to feel a little left out when the time finally came, but in truth he felt nothing but awe, and love. “God in heaven.” The blasphemy was torn out of his mouth. Aramis took his own cock in hand, amazed by how aroused he was.

Athos gripped the hand still wrapped around his own. “You save that,” he ordered in a voice like gravel. “I want you in me next.”

“Jesus.” Porthos had been keeping himself very still, but his hips bucked then. Athos groaned deep in his throat and his other hand clambered for purchase on Porthos’ back. Aramis bit his lip and grabbed himself by the base, hard, trying to keep himself under control.

It was filthy, but that was no surprise. What hit Aramis like a blow to the gut was tenderness he still felt. He bent and crawled forward, kissing Athos’ face. “We love you,” he managed between kisses.

“So much,” Porthos finished for him.

For a moment, Athos just stared, eyes flickering between the two of them. “All this time?” It was only half a question- more an awed statement, like he knew now but still couldn’t quite believe it, couldn’t be sure.

“All this time,” Aramis confirmed.

“We’ll never let you forget it again,” Porthos growled and Aramis scrambled back to give him more room, but he kept his grip on Athos’ hand. Porthos thrust and even if Aramis hadn’t seen it he would have felt it as Athos held onto him tighter.

“Harder,” Athos murmured, and Aramis felt it too when Porthos obeyed.

Athos’ head tipped back, his eyes closing, and Aramis felt the loss of his gaze like it had been a physical thing. He watched Porthos kissing and nipping at his neck; he felt Athos hold his hand tighter as Porthos sucked.

“We love you,” Aramis said again. He would never tire of saying it.

Athos nodded, his eyes still tightly closed. He squeezed Aramis’ hand a final time and withdrew it, again taking Porthos’ face in both his hands and pulling it up to meet his. They kissed each other, sloppily, and Porthos’ hips stuttered between Athos’ legs. When Aramis realized that Porthos was coming he had to look away or he might follow.

When Aramis looked again Athos was kissing Porthos’ hair, his brow, the sides of his head, and whispering to him, just too quietly for Aramis to hear. He didn’t try; there had always been something a little bit different between Athos and Porthos than either of them had with Aramis, something a little bit easier and perhaps more instinctively understood, but not better. Aramis had always loved to watch how it unfolded, but never more than in that moment.

Porthos caught Athos' mouth in his and kissed him a final time before turning to look at Aramis. He looked overwhelmed in a way Aramis had never seen before, and Aramis considered himself very well versed in Porthos’ expressions. Through all this, Athos lay still, watching the byplay silently. He must have been desperate for release at that point, but if he was he didn’t show it. “I’m going to-” Porthos gestured in a manner that wasn’t particularly illuminating, voice rough. “Get cleaned up,” he said.

Aramis nodded. “We could wait for you,” he said, glancing at Athos for agreement as he said so.

Porthos paused, uncertain.

Aramis just nodded to him.  He understand that Porthos might need a moment or two to pull himself together. If that had been anywhere near as intense of him as it had been for Aramis, he would need it, and Aramis hadn’t even come yet.

He crawled over to Athos and kissed him, settling gratefully between his legs.  He let himself get lost in the kiss, let the sense of urgency fade away under the certainty that it would be soon.  Then Aramis heard a sound not made by either of them and turned his head to see Porthos standing at the edge of the bed. He had cleaned himself up and brought what was probably the cleanest rag Athos possessed back with him. Aramis remembered the groan Porthos had given, what felt like a thousand years ago, when he had seen the two of them laughing together before. Remember how much Porthos seemed to like watching them with each other. Aramis raised a brow at him. “What?”

“Just…” Porthos spread his hands. “The two of you. I… worried about you. How this… would work. _If_ it would work.”

It took Aramis a moment to realize what Porthos meant- but who could blame him if he wasn’t thinking very clearly at the time? But he understood it all then. It was Porthos who had first told Aramis that he wanted Athos, and Porthos who was most aroused by talking about him in the bedroom. Aramis had wanted this too- of course he had- but there must have been a part of Porthos that had wondered, until he saw them together, if he was being humored.

Porthos climbed onto the edge of the bed and Aramis kissed him quickly before returning his attention to Athos. He wasn’t going to make either of them wait any longer for this.

Athos pulled Aramis close and their fingers tangled on Aramis’ cock, getting him into position. By then, all Athos had to do- or _could_ do- was nod.

Aramis was not as big as Porthos, and Athos was still slick; when he pushed inside he met very little resistance. He kept his eyes closed, trying to think more about the mechanics of what he was doing than who he was doing it with. But he felt Athos’ hands on his back and in his hair and he had to look. He saw the tender way Athos was looking up at him and it lanced like fire through his gut. “Oh,” pushed out of his mouth as if it had a life of its own.

“Yeah,” Porthos said, warmly, resting a gentle hand on the back of Aramis’ beck. “That’s how I felt too.”

“It’s you,” Aramis whispered, rocking inside Athos and kissing his face. The easy slide of his cock deeper into Athos’ body seemed somehow different than any other time he’d performed this act, as if every sensation was amplified, and he knew no other way to explain the sensation than, “It’s _you_.” He sought Athos’ mouth and murmured against it, “I don’t think I’ll last very long.”

He felt more than saw Athos’ smile. “Neither will I,” he replied. “I just-” he hissed as Aramis moved in him- “wanted to feel you.”

“Yeah,” Aramis whispered, and kissed him some more. Athos felt so good beneath him and around him, but Aramis kept shifting, searching. He was amazed by how much Athos obviously loved being filled, humbled by the fact that he was allowing them to see it, but he still wondered. Aramis course corrected a final time and Athos made a noise Aramis hadn’t heard before and clutched at him, fingers digging into Aramis’ back.

Aramis groaned, loving that edge of pain. He pressed into that same place, drew back a bit and pressed into it again. He finally found the right rhythm and Athos moaned underneath him, head falling back. Aramis kissed his neck and reached between them, barely touching Athos’ cock before he was coming.

Aramis thrust twice more as Athos’ body tightened around him, drawing him over the edge.

He came so hard it blacked out his vision for a second. Aramis waited, panting, for that to pass. He watched Athos carefully and pulled out as slowly as he could. Athos’ face still contorted with a little pain, and Porthos leaned over him, kissing his face.

Aramis collapsed at Athos’ side, kissing his shoulder, and let Porthos clean them both off.

When that was done Aramis let Porthos pull Athos to his chest and then wrapped himself around Athos back.

Surprisingly, it was Athos who spoke first. “What now?” he asked quietly.

“Now we find a way to outfox your wife,” Porthos replied. “Take care of her and the cardinal before they take care of us.”

Athos nodded and was silent for a moment. “Am I allowed to talk about Treville now?”

Aramis gave an exaggerated sigh. “If you must.”

“We’ll go to him the next time we’re on duty. Come up with a plan.”

At that, Aramis snorted. “I can’t wait for Treville to hear this.”

Making a choked noise not quite like a laugh, Athos rolled his eyes heavenward. “Of course you can’t,” he muttered. After that, he was silent for a moment. Then, softly, he said, “But that’s not what I meant.”

“Ah.” Porthos huffed out a breath. “Do you want to be with us? I mean- do you want this to be more than a onetime thing?”

“Of course I do,” Athos said, sounding vaguely offended. “I hoped you two knew that.”

“We hoped we knew that too,” Aramis returned, confident he spoke for them both. He glanced over Athos’ head in Porthos’ direction and saw him nodding. “But you haven’t exactly been a source of much… clarity over the years, my dear Athos. Every we move we made to try to… feel you out was... not rebuffed, exactly, but met with a very definite…”

“Lack of interest,” Porthos filled in.

“Lack of interest,” Aramis agreed.

Athos made an unhappy noise. “Lack of understanding, more like. On my honor, I never once thought…” He cleared his throat. “I knew the two of you were lovers, even before you told me. But if you-” Porthos huffed and Athos amended himself- “ _when_ you invited me to join you, I didn’t realize. I don’t regret that. I was hardly ready for your friendship, let alone… this kind of love.” He kissed Porthos’ chest to demonstrate. “But if it made you doubt me tonight, I am sorry for that. I want to be better. For you.”

And Aramis wanted Athos to be better for Athos, but he understood that this was a process, one that they couldn’t push Athos through no matter how much they wanted to. So, he said only, “As long as you know that we’ll be here, even when you aren’t.”

Porthos wrapped an arm around Athos squeezed Aramis’ hand.

They were going to be all right. Aramis was sure of it.                      

**Author's Note:**

> By the way, you can come see me at my brand new [tumblr](http://potentiality-26.tumblr.com).


End file.
